If it rains tomorrow, as it is scheduled to, I have an inside job all ready to go.
I'm going to tackle The Beast, the beast I call Wedding World. WW lives in my basement and has done so since we moved into our house six years ago. Six or seven shelving units filled with miscellaneous things, mostly kitchen-type stuff received as wedding gifts, things that have not yet made it into circulation in the house. They're just.... well.... not our taste. (is that a polite way to say ugly?)
It's been, yes, six years. But while we really could use the extra space, we can't just throw out the items in WW, or sell them at a yard sale; that would be plain wrong. They were heart-gifts: carefully chosen by people we cared enough about to invite to Our Big Day. Furthermore, I know if I had a yard sale, somehow the gift-givers would show up, especially the givers of the very ugliest gifts.
It's terrible having this kind of guilty conscience. Even though I suspect one particular box of kitchen storage boxes was actually a regift, unless the other tag is actually in there, I can't tell and there it sits, accusingly. These items are occasionally moved around within the basement, although, generally just to the other things around them, the ones I actually use and, well... like.
So this weekend, since I can't bring myself to part with these tactile pieces of affection, Wedding World is officially being moved to another corner of the basement. Where at least I won't trip over all that love.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
April 27, 2010 - Finishing Up
I always thought I was a finisher. 'Get the job done, even if it's not perfect.' But I've had to have a wee re-think on that, considering I am just now, four long years after beginning a modest renovation on a powder room, finishing it off.
To be fair, it was an unintentional renovation. I just wanted to see whether there was real oak underneath that hideous grey paint. By the time I got five layers of paint off one wainscoted wall, I had ruined the linoleum. Since I was pulling up the linoleum, it only stands to reason I should get rid of the ugly vanity, and if the vanity had to go, we might as well get a new loo, the low-flow, environment-friendly kind, and since we're putting in a sink, well, we might as well pull out that ugly cupboard while we're at it. Plus, in addition to the five layers of paint, (probably lead paint, which would explain a lot..), there were three layers of wallpaper, and I had to learn how to tile and grout.
But still; four years?!
Again, to be fair, two of those years were foolishly spent waiting for the return of a plumber after I said, 'Oh, I'm not in a hurry..." when he asked when I wanted some pipes moved and replaced. Happily, in November, my sweetheart and his friends found the time to rip out the old pipes and replace them with new ones. Funny enough we now have extra water pressure upstairs, too.
And finally, I can see the finish line. I've figured out the basic carpentry (and only had to re-purchase one the boards for the bulkhead after screwing it up...), I've boxed in the new pipes, installed a piece of drywall, mudded, sanded, and today could be the day I paint. We'll see. I have even figured out how I'm going to repair the trim I mangled in my excitement to install the new sink. A lovely carpenter gifted me with a nailset, so my new trim will be tidy.
Yes, in another couple of months, after I've used up my last excuse, I will finally be able to say, "Oh, indeed, I did the whole thing myself; it wasn't hard at all!"
To be fair, it was an unintentional renovation. I just wanted to see whether there was real oak underneath that hideous grey paint. By the time I got five layers of paint off one wainscoted wall, I had ruined the linoleum. Since I was pulling up the linoleum, it only stands to reason I should get rid of the ugly vanity, and if the vanity had to go, we might as well get a new loo, the low-flow, environment-friendly kind, and since we're putting in a sink, well, we might as well pull out that ugly cupboard while we're at it. Plus, in addition to the five layers of paint, (probably lead paint, which would explain a lot..), there were three layers of wallpaper, and I had to learn how to tile and grout.
But still; four years?!
Again, to be fair, two of those years were foolishly spent waiting for the return of a plumber after I said, 'Oh, I'm not in a hurry..." when he asked when I wanted some pipes moved and replaced. Happily, in November, my sweetheart and his friends found the time to rip out the old pipes and replace them with new ones. Funny enough we now have extra water pressure upstairs, too.
And finally, I can see the finish line. I've figured out the basic carpentry (and only had to re-purchase one the boards for the bulkhead after screwing it up...), I've boxed in the new pipes, installed a piece of drywall, mudded, sanded, and today could be the day I paint. We'll see. I have even figured out how I'm going to repair the trim I mangled in my excitement to install the new sink. A lovely carpenter gifted me with a nailset, so my new trim will be tidy.
Yes, in another couple of months, after I've used up my last excuse, I will finally be able to say, "Oh, indeed, I did the whole thing myself; it wasn't hard at all!"
Thursday, April 22, 2010
New Year's, Christmas, Your Birthday and the Last Day of School
Yes, every favourite day of the year, wrapped in one fish-scented, hungover, sleepover campout weekend for the boys.
As I write, three grownup, responsible men are in my living room, agonizing over the grocery list for Fishin' Season Weekend. Somewhere in Niagara Falls, a different set of grownup, responsible men, are rifling through assorted frozen meat from a year's worth of hunting, to bring to share.
It's hard to describe how big FSW is to these guys, and my sweetheart in particular. They talk about it all year long, keep track of the weather for several weeks in advance, keep photo albums of adventures from years past and every 'last Saturday of April', off they go to a favourite spot in a bend of the Pretty River, the same one they've been going to since high school. They pitch their tents, drink some beer (caesars or scotch nowadays), and tell tall tales about FSWs past. Like the time one friend took a swim in the 'empties pool' (literally, one of those little plastic backyard swimming pools), and needed nine stitches. I'm so sorry for the nurse who had to look after him. Or the time two girls fell into the river while dancing, and had to hang their clothes by the fire, watching them steam in the frigid April night. Or how's about the nickname one of the guys was given because of his antics in 1987, and who goes by that nickname to this day?
These days, the equipment is high tech; no styrofoam coolers of cheap beer. One guy has a teepee complete with a woodstove and camping cots, another brings a whole tricked-out camping kitchen, complete with drawers for storage and an oven.
Friday night at midnight, the trout streams officially open for the season. It's the reason for FSW in the first place, and sometimes, someone will even catch a fish.
But mostly, it's about the friends, and now, the memories.
And I vow never to fall in the river again.
As I write, three grownup, responsible men are in my living room, agonizing over the grocery list for Fishin' Season Weekend. Somewhere in Niagara Falls, a different set of grownup, responsible men, are rifling through assorted frozen meat from a year's worth of hunting, to bring to share.
It's hard to describe how big FSW is to these guys, and my sweetheart in particular. They talk about it all year long, keep track of the weather for several weeks in advance, keep photo albums of adventures from years past and every 'last Saturday of April', off they go to a favourite spot in a bend of the Pretty River, the same one they've been going to since high school. They pitch their tents, drink some beer (caesars or scotch nowadays), and tell tall tales about FSWs past. Like the time one friend took a swim in the 'empties pool' (literally, one of those little plastic backyard swimming pools), and needed nine stitches. I'm so sorry for the nurse who had to look after him. Or the time two girls fell into the river while dancing, and had to hang their clothes by the fire, watching them steam in the frigid April night. Or how's about the nickname one of the guys was given because of his antics in 1987, and who goes by that nickname to this day?
These days, the equipment is high tech; no styrofoam coolers of cheap beer. One guy has a teepee complete with a woodstove and camping cots, another brings a whole tricked-out camping kitchen, complete with drawers for storage and an oven.
Friday night at midnight, the trout streams officially open for the season. It's the reason for FSW in the first place, and sometimes, someone will even catch a fish.
But mostly, it's about the friends, and now, the memories.
And I vow never to fall in the river again.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
April 18, 2010 – No food in this kitchen, please
I buy strange things each week at the grocery store, carefully store them in plastic bags and other containers, keep them in the refrigerator for a few weeks until they’re good and rotten and then throw 'em out. They’re called vegetables.
But there's more going on in my 'fridge than I thought. Recently, I tried to jam a small cabbage into the bottom shelf, but could not because the whole thing was full. But not with any actual food.
What follows is a by-no-means-comprehensive list of the non-food in my 'fridge today:
Tom Yum Soup paste
Anchovies in a tube
Anchovies in a tin
Green curry paste
Red curry paste
Soba noodles with no expiration date, but of whose purchase I have no recollection
Miso- see above
Stuff I thought was miso, but turned out to some other, unidentifiable thing, thanks to the Asian script I don't know how to read
Two kinds of horseradish, plus a jar of pre-mixed Wasabi
Three kinds of soy sauce- one for sushi, one for stir-frying, one reduced-sodium
Four varieties of mustard (five if you count French’s prepared and no-name prepared as two kinds)
Surprisingly, just one bottle of ketchup….
Sambal Oleck- crazy hot Asian sauce
Siraachi sauce- super crazy hot Asian sauce
Sauce for cold or springrolls
Container of lychees in syrup (for lychee martinis)
Maple syrup
Another jar of maple syrup
Hot banana peppers
Homemade pickled leeks
Homemade dill pickles
Storebought dill pickles
Hot mixed pickles
Roasted red peppers
Pesto
6 bottles of salad dressing
One bottle of leftover late harvest white wine. (yuk!)
Half-empty jar of Miracle Whip
Half empty can of tomato paste in a bag (moldy, natch)
Ginger paste
Garlic paste
Crushed garlic
Garlic jelly
Basket of assorted half-empty jams, all homemade by my mother or me. (peach/banana, raspberry, strawberry, blackcap (#1 at the fair!!!), and two chutneys.)
Red pepper spicy chutney
Seriously, I don’t need a beer fridge; I need a condiment fridge!
But there's more going on in my 'fridge than I thought. Recently, I tried to jam a small cabbage into the bottom shelf, but could not because the whole thing was full. But not with any actual food.
What follows is a by-no-means-comprehensive list of the non-food in my 'fridge today:
Tom Yum Soup paste
Anchovies in a tube
Anchovies in a tin
Green curry paste
Red curry paste
Soba noodles with no expiration date, but of whose purchase I have no recollection
Miso- see above
Stuff I thought was miso, but turned out to some other, unidentifiable thing, thanks to the Asian script I don't know how to read
Two kinds of horseradish, plus a jar of pre-mixed Wasabi
Three kinds of soy sauce- one for sushi, one for stir-frying, one reduced-sodium
Four varieties of mustard (five if you count French’s prepared and no-name prepared as two kinds)
Surprisingly, just one bottle of ketchup….
Sambal Oleck- crazy hot Asian sauce
Siraachi sauce- super crazy hot Asian sauce
Sauce for cold or springrolls
Container of lychees in syrup (for lychee martinis)
Maple syrup
Another jar of maple syrup
Hot banana peppers
Homemade pickled leeks
Homemade dill pickles
Storebought dill pickles
Hot mixed pickles
Roasted red peppers
Pesto
6 bottles of salad dressing
One bottle of leftover late harvest white wine. (yuk!)
Half-empty jar of Miracle Whip
Half empty can of tomato paste in a bag (moldy, natch)
Ginger paste
Garlic paste
Crushed garlic
Garlic jelly
Basket of assorted half-empty jams, all homemade by my mother or me. (peach/banana, raspberry, strawberry, blackcap (#1 at the fair!!!), and two chutneys.)
Red pepper spicy chutney
Seriously, I don’t need a beer fridge; I need a condiment fridge!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
April 13, 2010- And don't call me Baby
With the recent furor over Simcoe Grey's Helena Guergis, one the comments I've heard a few times is why, in the year 2010, we still have a Minister of State for the Status of Women.
Here's an example, albeit a small one, of how women are not exactly at equality just yet:
The radio newsroom at which I work is connected to several other stations, in Owen Sound, Port Elgin, Goderich and soon, Orillia. We share resources and stories and sometimes a laugh or two.When the stories first started breaking about Helena Guergis, some of the newsies at the other stations titled the stories they were writing, 'Helena' rather than "Guergis".
Never when a story comes across my desk featuring a male politician does the slug line feature only the first name of the politician. I checked.
When Bill Murdoch was doing his sit in in the fall in protest of the HST, the stories were titled, 'Murdoch- Sit In' or 'Murdoch- Sit in Continues', not 'Bill- Sit in', or 'Bill- Sit in Continues'. When Jim Wilson makes pronouncements, it's 'Wilson', when Garfield Dunlop talks, the story is slugged 'Dunlop'. Ditto for Harper, Baird, Bernier and Obama. The argument might be made that Jim and Bill need the last name because their first names are so common. Maybe so, but I have yet to see a story slugged, 'Barak'. Since language is the cutting edge of thought, what does referring to a female politician in the diminutive reveal?
The very fact that I had to point this difference out to my male colleagues and request equal treatment for a woman in the news is a small, sad sign we haven't yet come all the way, baby.
Here's an example, albeit a small one, of how women are not exactly at equality just yet:
The radio newsroom at which I work is connected to several other stations, in Owen Sound, Port Elgin, Goderich and soon, Orillia. We share resources and stories and sometimes a laugh or two.When the stories first started breaking about Helena Guergis, some of the newsies at the other stations titled the stories they were writing, 'Helena' rather than "Guergis".
Never when a story comes across my desk featuring a male politician does the slug line feature only the first name of the politician. I checked.
When Bill Murdoch was doing his sit in in the fall in protest of the HST, the stories were titled, 'Murdoch- Sit In' or 'Murdoch- Sit in Continues', not 'Bill- Sit in', or 'Bill- Sit in Continues'. When Jim Wilson makes pronouncements, it's 'Wilson', when Garfield Dunlop talks, the story is slugged 'Dunlop'. Ditto for Harper, Baird, Bernier and Obama. The argument might be made that Jim and Bill need the last name because their first names are so common. Maybe so, but I have yet to see a story slugged, 'Barak'. Since language is the cutting edge of thought, what does referring to a female politician in the diminutive reveal?
The very fact that I had to point this difference out to my male colleagues and request equal treatment for a woman in the news is a small, sad sign we haven't yet come all the way, baby.
Monday, April 12, 2010
April 12, 2010- Guergis Mea Culpa
It's hard not to pay attention to the looooong list of revelations and allegations in this whole Helena Guergis affair, and I admit to being fairly consumed with the story for the past while. Frankly, it's fascinating to witness the national media going nuts over something that's happening in my backyard.
Until Friday, I was fairly certain Helena Guergis would survive these setbacks, and remain the candidate for the federal Conservatives in Simcoe Grey. This is such bedrock conservative country, I figured she could do pretty much anything and still get elected.
But then, the expense accounts sidebar to the saga came out.
Regardless of whatever it is the RCMP may or may not be investigating regarding Helena Guergis, and regardless of what the commons ethics committee finds,the expense accounts have done her in, in Simcoe Grey. One simply cannot ask taxpayers to fork out for a 250 dollar purse as an election expense and expect to keep your seat next time around.
Furthermore, the purse in question was bought at Winners, the discount store. It has not yet been approved or reimbursed, according to the accounts I've read, but she did indeed put in for it.
Most of her would-be supporters will think, if she were going to spend 250-dollars on a handbag, should it not be at a trendy boutique on one of the beleaguered main streets of her home riding? The rest, the biggest supporters (and by big, I mean moneyed), will drop her because now she's shown her true colours and they're not their colours; she's a (shudder of distaste...) discount shopper.
Until Friday, I was fairly certain Helena Guergis would survive these setbacks, and remain the candidate for the federal Conservatives in Simcoe Grey. This is such bedrock conservative country, I figured she could do pretty much anything and still get elected.
But then, the expense accounts sidebar to the saga came out.
Regardless of whatever it is the RCMP may or may not be investigating regarding Helena Guergis, and regardless of what the commons ethics committee finds,the expense accounts have done her in, in Simcoe Grey. One simply cannot ask taxpayers to fork out for a 250 dollar purse as an election expense and expect to keep your seat next time around.
Furthermore, the purse in question was bought at Winners, the discount store. It has not yet been approved or reimbursed, according to the accounts I've read, but she did indeed put in for it.
Most of her would-be supporters will think, if she were going to spend 250-dollars on a handbag, should it not be at a trendy boutique on one of the beleaguered main streets of her home riding? The rest, the biggest supporters (and by big, I mean moneyed), will drop her because now she's shown her true colours and they're not their colours; she's a (shudder of distaste...) discount shopper.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
April 3, 2010- Kitchen Adventure: the spatchcocked turkey
I woke up Saturday morning dreaming of smashing a turkey. November’s edition of Martha Stewart Living (don’t laugh!) has been holding me in thrall for months now, as I think about spatchcocking. Not just fun to say, but a time saver and apparently delicious, too, what's not to like?
Spatchcocking lets you cook a turkey dinner in an hour- none of this getting up early to stuff and get the bird into the oven, no tedious hours of basting, worrying and fussing. My sweetie and I were the cookers of the family Christmas turkey a few years ago, and while it was an honour, it was also a lot of work. Although cooking the bird this way means no stuffing or gravy, I was intrigued at the thought of a bird in an hour.
Finally, last night, I got my chance, and with seven us around the table, I did what you’re never supposed to do: try a new meal for a dinner party.
Spatchcocking is also known as butterflying, but it sounds more technical and somehow surgical, and there are lots of opportunities for making jokes with the word, which is why I quite love it, and used it all day long. “Six hours to spatchcock, honey!” "I wonder if this beer would taste beter spatchcocked..." Yes, juvenile and silly, but still kinda funny.
Sadly, when the time came for the big procedure, it was a teeny bit of a letdown, since it took only a few seconds. Coached by Sweetie, reading from Martha Stewart (certainly a first), I used my poultry shears to cut out the spine of the bird, flipped it over and pushed down really hard on first the left and then the right side of the breast, until I heard the snapping sound of the breaking breastbone. Voila- a flattened turkey.
450 degrees, one hour, according to the recipe.
After we took the fuse out of the smoke alarm, things went really well.
And sure enough, the bird was done in an hour, according to my thermometer, anyway. We had some worries about the donenees, since the leg didn’t separate from the thigh the way it usually does in a roasted bird. One of our guests assured us though, that since there’s so little time in the oven, the connective tissues don’t have time to break down the way they would in a three or four hour roast, and he was pretty sure we weren't setting ourselves up for food poisoning.
It was tasty, I must say, and the dinner was lively and entertaining. I’m totally ready to spatchcock again, if only for the giggle I get every time I say it.
My sweetie, however, is not convinced. He’s a gravy and stuffing man.
I woke up Saturday morning dreaming of smashing a turkey. November’s edition of Martha Stewart Living (don’t laugh!) has been holding me in thrall for months now, as I think about spatchcocking. Not just fun to say, but a time saver and apparently delicious, too, what's not to like?
Spatchcocking lets you cook a turkey dinner in an hour- none of this getting up early to stuff and get the bird into the oven, no tedious hours of basting, worrying and fussing. My sweetie and I were the cookers of the family Christmas turkey a few years ago, and while it was an honour, it was also a lot of work. Although cooking the bird this way means no stuffing or gravy, I was intrigued at the thought of a bird in an hour.
Finally, last night, I got my chance, and with seven us around the table, I did what you’re never supposed to do: try a new meal for a dinner party.
Spatchcocking is also known as butterflying, but it sounds more technical and somehow surgical, and there are lots of opportunities for making jokes with the word, which is why I quite love it, and used it all day long. “Six hours to spatchcock, honey!” "I wonder if this beer would taste beter spatchcocked..." Yes, juvenile and silly, but still kinda funny.
Sadly, when the time came for the big procedure, it was a teeny bit of a letdown, since it took only a few seconds. Coached by Sweetie, reading from Martha Stewart (certainly a first), I used my poultry shears to cut out the spine of the bird, flipped it over and pushed down really hard on first the left and then the right side of the breast, until I heard the snapping sound of the breaking breastbone. Voila- a flattened turkey.
450 degrees, one hour, according to the recipe.
After we took the fuse out of the smoke alarm, things went really well.
And sure enough, the bird was done in an hour, according to my thermometer, anyway. We had some worries about the donenees, since the leg didn’t separate from the thigh the way it usually does in a roasted bird. One of our guests assured us though, that since there’s so little time in the oven, the connective tissues don’t have time to break down the way they would in a three or four hour roast, and he was pretty sure we weren't setting ourselves up for food poisoning.
It was tasty, I must say, and the dinner was lively and entertaining. I’m totally ready to spatchcock again, if only for the giggle I get every time I say it.
My sweetie, however, is not convinced. He’s a gravy and stuffing man.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
April 1, 2010- Dear Editor
Now, I'm not the editor of a newspaper, but I still thought I should share this letter to the editor with you after it arrived in my email box:
Dear Editor,
My boss is really great, but some people seem to have forgotten it. I worry for my company because so many people have had nasty things to say about my boss.
Do those people really think they could do a better job? ha! Fat chance.
People who think my boss shouldn't have their job as my boss are just plain stupid and mean. Furthermore, people who disagree with anything my company does are stupid and mean and they take up valuable oxygen that could be used by other people, people who agree with us and what we're trying to do, which is make the world a better place for everyone who agrees with us.
In sum, my boss good, everyone who doesn't agree, bad.
Yours respectfully,
Cordelia Fitzgerald.
Dear Editor,
My boss is really great, but some people seem to have forgotten it. I worry for my company because so many people have had nasty things to say about my boss.
Do those people really think they could do a better job? ha! Fat chance.
People who think my boss shouldn't have their job as my boss are just plain stupid and mean. Furthermore, people who disagree with anything my company does are stupid and mean and they take up valuable oxygen that could be used by other people, people who agree with us and what we're trying to do, which is make the world a better place for everyone who agrees with us.
In sum, my boss good, everyone who doesn't agree, bad.
Yours respectfully,
Cordelia Fitzgerald.
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